timebomb
by ckifi
Summary: What's particularly disconcerting is the absence of that "something"—that one gaping aperture in her memory, usually so full of reason—lingering in the back of her mind. The incident that's to resolve her suspicions and still the blood roaring in her ears. It's supposed to be there. And it is—but at the same time, it's not.


Max awakens in a cold sweat.

She turns her head at an angle and rests a hand against the nape of her neck. It's clammy and sticky, just as it usually is after she's had a nightmare.

She blinks wearily, widening her eyes and squinting at her hands and jeans. Even in the dark, she can see that the edges are too soft, too vague. Her vision is usually fuzzy first thing in the morning, but her eyes feel a little swollen, like they're recovering from a couple blows.

As soon as she rolls to her left, her foot catches onto the dresser next to her mattress; her torso's thrown onto the floor with a yelp, leaving her body at a weirdly acute angle.

Why can't she see?

Admittedly, rolling off the bed has happened before, and so she immediately notices that something about the incline is off. It's a little more compact than usual.

Was that dresser even there in the first place? When was the last time she'd done any renovations? Certainly not last night, she'd been too busy with—

Last night.

What was she doing last night?

Max draws a blank, and it's suddenly impossible to recollect her last memory. What was she doing last night?

Something tight mounts in her chest, rising and falling in short, quick breaths.

Maybe all those years of focusing on her computer screen have finally built up to this—to poor eyesight.

As Max shuffles about, hands and limbs outstretched wide, searching, she slams her left foot into what feels like a hard block of wood. She curses loudly, kneeling down and rocking back and forth, groaning in pain. Her fingers are splayed out in all of her hazy, fucked up confusion, unsure as to where to go.

Why is the room so _dark?_

 _Okay,_ Max thinks. She can make out vague shapes and splotches of color, but it's difficult to do so in such low lighting. She usually keeps her blinds up.

 _Just find the door. This is your room, idiot._

She gets up and reaches for the walls, tracing the perimeter with her fingers, until she comes across what feels like a light switch. She flips it.

Once light floods the room, relief washes over Max. It's followed by a wave of shock, because even in her foggy vision, she can clearly see that this isn't her room.

What the fuck?

This is wrong.

Max really, really needs to remember what happened last night. Like, right now. What the fuck did she do? How did she end up here? And why is it that she still can't _see_?

Something flashes in her memory. A rhythm she can feel in her throat, with vibrations echoing as loud as the music itself.

Music. Loud music. So very, very loud, with flashing lights and people, people dancing, people laughing, people getting angry, just people. Too many of them rubbing up against each other, too lax, too close. Too much of everything.

Red and blue and green rush through Max's eyes, and just like that, the memory is gone.

"Come on _,_ " she tells herself, gritting her teeth. _Think._

What's particularly disconcerting is the absence of that something _—_ that one gaping aperture in her memory, usually so full of reason—lingering in the back of her mind. The incident that's to resolve her suspicions and still the blood roaring in her ears. It's supposed to _be_ there. And it is—but at the same time, it's not.

Something's wrong, and Max can't seem to precisely recall what she'd done the night before. And even if she could remember, she's not entirely sure if it'll give her the answers she's looking for.

The room is filled with shelves and a couple dressers, organized and clean, with the exemption of a few items strewn across the floor. She toes at one particular clump in uncertainty, only to find that it's some article of clothing that smells strangely of alcohol. She recoils.

She's recognized, however, that the room's general blueprint is comparable to those of her own dorm at Blackwell. A part of her wants to take comfort in knowing that she's still on campus, but for some reason, it just makes it all the more unsettling.

There's a knock on the door.

"Nathan?"

Max freezes. Nathan? Is this Nathan's room?

There's no way. It can't be.

"Nathan? Are you there?"

Who is that?

Whoever's on the other side of the door huffs.

Victoria.

"I know you're there, Nathan. Hayden told me you missed, like, half of your classes today. Did something happen?"

Max scrambles for a place to hide at once. Under the blankets, in the closet, anything. Wherever she can go. But she can't fucking _see,_ and of course she just _has_ to run into another goddamn bookshelf, so she hunches over and lets out a cross between a whisper and a shout, hopping around and raising her arms up and down in pain like she's some stupid ballerina—

The door clicks open. "Jesus Christ, you never pick up your phone! When will y—"

It's an interesting prospect: Victoria, made up in her usual attire and preened to precision, and Max, squinting in pain, hopping about Nathan Prescott's room. Disheveled, flustered, and visibly tousled to the point of exasperation.

Victoria, amazingly, does not berate Max, nor glare at her. Instead, she pinches the bridge of her nose with one hand and rests the other on her hip, sighing and shaking her head.

"Oh, my god. Do you even—okay. So you had a rough night." Victoria raises her gaze to meet Max straight in the eye, and to be honest, she kind of looks like she has to pee. Or maybe she just has to sneeze. Either way, Max can feel the discomfort practically radiating off of her. "Sorry. I didn't know—" Victoria begins, but Max cuts her off loudly, and once she starts, she can't stop.

"I swear to god I wasn't doing anything, I just woke up and I had no idea where I was, I don't know what happened and I can't _see_ and—and—" Max blabbers, and Victoria looks at her like she's lost her mind, and maybe she has, but the sudden outburst has practically tipped her to the breaking point because it feels like she can't breathe and she's so, _so_ confused right now, she doesn't know what to do—

"Hey, hey!" Victoria says. "Jesus, relax! It's okay." She steps over the pile of clothes on the floor and heads towards Max, who's hovering somewhere between the door and the bookshelf behind her, as though she's afraid to touch anything within the vicinity.

"Are you freaking out again? Did something happen?"

Again? The level of concern in Victoria's tone throws her off.

They have never interacted like this before. Victoria has never looked at her, not like that. Not with that crease in the middle of her brow. She's narrowed her eyes and shot daggers and furrowed her brow in irritation at Max, but never like this.

What the hell is going on?

Mistaking Max's silence for reserve, Victoria turns and grabs something beside Max's bed. "Here," she says. Max warily eyes said object in hand.

Victoria sighs and reaches forward, sliding something above and onto Max's ears.

There's a frame bordering her line of sight, but everything is suddenly fine-tuned to high definition. Max centers in on the lint hanging off of Victoria's cashmere sweater, the red jacket on the carpet. The dust particles hanging in the air, floating amidst streaks of light that burst from the windows. She spots the faultless lipstick stained below the cupid's bow of Victoria's lips, the glistening pearls hanging above her chest. The monochrome photos suspended high above the bedframe and aligned to perfection.

"I can't believe you forgot your fucking glasses," Victoria mutters. "Are you high or something?"

Max has never worn glasses in her life.

"I know you feel like shit, but could you _please_ , like. At least pick up your phone." Victoria sets a sleek black cell phone in Max's hands. She runs her thumb over the screen and presses the button at the bottom of the device. It doesn't light up—it's probably dead—but Max can still see something.

She raises the phone closer to her face, catching her reflection in the black screen.

She cannot breathe.

"Where were you last night, anyway? You missed out." Victoria's rambling on about something incomprehensible. Her words are fuzzy and muted, like she's speaking through a screen.

"I," Max says, and she realizes now why her voice sounds so hoarse. Deep, deeper than her own.

But it doesn't make sense. It can't.

Because when she tries to gaze at her reflection again, Nathan Prescott is looking right back at her.

* * *

 **A/N** :¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
